


The Garden at Gough Square

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke, Ladies of Grace Adieu - Susanna Clarke, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Case Fic, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a client who's looking for his missing brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Garden at Gough Square

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/2803282.html>

"I'm not saying it's a big problem," says John, "I'm just saying that it needs to be cleaned."  
  
Sherlock tips his head over the back of the armchair and sighs. "And this affects me how?" he asks.  
  
John tries his hardest not to get annoyed. "It's a shared flat, Sherlock," he says. "You use the bathroom as well as me-- Look, I'm not even going to ask what those stains are, but I'm not going to be the one who cleans them up."  
  
Sherlock presses his palms into his eyes with a groan. "I hardly have time for this, John."  
  
"Time? Sherlock! You haven't had anything to do for days! All you do is sit around moping!"  
  
Sherlock removes a hand and gives John a one-eyed glare. "I'm not _moping_ ," he says sourly. "I'm _thinking_."  
  
"Fine," says John, throwing up his hands and wandering into the kitchen-- to fill the kettle, not to work out which cooking utensil he would most like to chuck at Sherlock's head, satisfying though that would be. "You think all you like. In that case, we'll just have to live with those stains forever."  
  
"No, we won't," calls Sherlock. "Mrs Hudson will clean the bathroom for us."  
  
The wooden spoon, definitely the wooden spoon, it would make the most wonderful clunking noise. "You take Mrs Hudson for granted too much," replies John.  
  
"And you don't realise that she's quite capable of standing up for herself if she wants to," says Sherlock.  
  
"Of course I can stand up for myself, dear. And I'm not cleaning anything."  
  
Startled, John steps out of the kitchen to find Mrs Hudson hovering by their front door. "Sherlock's not getting himself into trouble, is he?" she asks John. "So many relationships break down because people don't set clear responsibilities at the start; that's what Jeremy Kyle says."  
  
"We're not..." starts John, but Mrs Hudson has already turned to Sherlock. "There's a gentleman turned up to see you," she says, and lowers her voice to a whisper. "Seems like he's looking for _help_."  
  
Sherlock sits up. "Is it interesting?" he asks, but he's stopped by the sound of feet running up the stairs.  
  
"I can't wait any longer," says a man in a suit as he bursts into the flat. "This is too important."  
  
Sherlock stands up, and John never fails to be impressed by the way Sherlock can go from listless to imposing in seconds, even when, like today, he's still in his pyjamas.  
  
Still, imposing or no, their visitor manages to be at least two inches taller than Sherlock himself, enough that Sherlock has to look up when the man says, "You must be Sherlock Holmes."  
  
"I am," replies Sherlock. "Mrs Hudson tells me you..."  
  
"Good," says the man, talking straight over him. "You need to help me. I won't take no for an answer."  
  
Sherlock looks at him for a long moment. "Is that so."  
  
"Yes," says the man. "It's..." He falters when he notices the look on Sherlock's face. "Er...." He runs a hand over his mouth and gives an embarrassed laugh. "If you wouldn't mind... Helping, that is."  
  
Sherlock huffs loudly then sits back down in the armchair. He steeples his fingers and studies their guest over the top of them. "Go on."  
  
The man coughs uncertainly, and settles himself down into the other armchair. "I found your website," he explains. "You seem like the only person who can help me. That's why I..."  
  
Sherlock sighs.  
  
The man sits up. "It's my brother, Ed," he protests. "He's gone missing and I have no idea where he could be." He runs a hand through his hair. "I just... Anything could have happened to him and I'd hate to think that..."  
  
"When did you last see him?" asks Sherlock.  
  
"The day before yesterday," says the man, scratching a thumbnail over his bottom lip. "Only, I didn't see him, as such; we spoke on the phone."  
  
"He's been gone for one day," says Sherlock, looking suddenly uninterested. "I hardly think that..."  
  
"But we speak every day!" protests the man. "Every day, without fail, I phone him in the evening and we catch up. He never misses a call, never. You have to believe me, Mr Holmes. You..."  
  
Sherlock sighs again. "And what's your brother's name?"  
  
"Ed," says the man. "I told you. It's Ed."  
  
Sherlock looks at him.  
  
The man frowns back.  
  
John decides to step in before things get more awkward than they already are. "A surname would be helpful," he suggests.  
  
"Well," says the man, "it's the same as..." His eyes widen. "I haven't introduced myself, have I? It's Merryweather, Will Merryweather. My brother's Edward Merryweather." He looks back to John. "Is that...? Who is that?"  
  
Sherlock smiles. "John is my assistant. Don't worry about him."  
  
"Ah, right." Will nods in John's direction and John gives a tight smile in response.  
  
"So," Will leans forward in his chair. "Will you help me?"  
  
Sherlock purses his lips. "Hard to say. What can you tell us about your brother? Where does he live? What does he do? Do you have a photograph?"  
  
"No photographs." Will shakes his head. "Ed hates having his photo taken. Always has. I can tell you where he lives though: 5 Gough Square. Just off of Fleet Street."  
  
"I know where it is," says Sherlock, rising from his chair and looking down at Will. "Although I fail to see why I should waste my time."  
  
"Wait!" cries Will. "I'll reward you! As soon as you find my brother, I'll give you anything you like. Just name it and..."  
  
Sherlock snorts. "Go to the police," he says. "They can help you with missing persons. They're good at that sort of thing."  
  
"No they're not." Will runs a hand over his mouth. "I know what they're like; they won't be able to find my brother. But you're the best, Mr Holmes. I've read all the cases on your website. You're extraordinary!"  
  
Sherlock smirks and stares into the fireplace. "Ok then," he says.  
  
Will's eyes light up. "Thank you!" he cries, jumping up out of the armchair and rushing over in an attempt to shake Sherlock's hand.  
  
Sherlock looks at Will's proffered hand but does nothing more. "Is there anything else you can tell me about your brother?"  
  
"Not really," replies Will, awkwardly shoving his hand in his pocket. "I gave you his address, didn't I?"  
  
Sherlock smiles. "You did." He looks over to the door. "Mrs Hudson will show you out."  
  
"Right," says Will. "Right." And with a final, "Thank you," he heads down the stairs.  
  
Sherlock looks out the window and smiles quietly to himself.  
  
"So," says John, with a despairing sigh. "You wait until they stroke your ego before you take a case? Nice."  
  
"Nonsense, John." Sherlock turns to John with a flourish. "I thought you were paying attention."  
  
"I was paying attention enough to hear you call me your lowly assistant," grumbles John.  
  
"Mr Will Merryweather," says Sherlock with a grin, "was lying through his teeth."  
  
John frowns. "Lying? About what?"  
  
"Everything," replies Sherlock. He pauses. "Well, almost. Did you see how he kept touching his bottom lip? It's a comfort gesture. People use them when they feel threatened. And when they're lying."  
  
"So," considers John, "he was lying the most when he was explaining why he didn't want to go to the police?"  
  
"Aha!" Sherlock jumps onto a footstool. "I knew you were paying attention."  
  
John tries not to smile at the compliment. "And why is he lying?"  
  
Sherlock's grin widens. "I have absolutely no idea."  
  
***  
  
Despite the fact that it's gone six in the evening and John's stomach is rumbling dangerously, Sherlock decides that they must visit Ed Merryweather's house immediately. John would complain but, well, he'd be a fool to pretend that he's not excited about the prospect of a new case too, so he makes do with grabbing himself some toast in the kitchen while Sherlock goes off to get changed.  
  
"Well, isn't that horrible?" says Mrs Hudson as she re-enters the flat. "To lose his brother like that? The poor man's in quite a state, and he's hardly even taking care of himself. Did you see the state of his shoes?" She gives the door a forlorn look. "I do hope Sherlock will be able to help him."  
  
"I'm sure he will," replies John, swallowing dryly-- there's no time for butter when there's a missing person to be found.  
  
"And he was such a handsome man too!" continues Mrs Hudson. "I'm not sure I've seen someone so beautiful since that one week in Cyprus."  
  
John is beset by a sudden worrying vision of Mrs Hudson on holiday before she tuts and slaps him with a tea-towel. "Ooh," she says. "Mind out of the gutter, please. He was only our tour guide. Oh, but he was _very_ good at it. He knew so much more about Cyprus than they ever tell you in the travel guides." She puts a hand to her chest and sighs. "Whereas this gentleman. This..."  
  
"Will Merryweather," provides John.  
  
"Will Merryweather. Well, I normally prefer my men to be a bit more... muscular, if you know what I mean. But this Will was just... He's strikingly handsome, don't you think?" Mrs Hudson presses her hands to her cheeks. "I almost felt like a silly schoolgirl when he was talking to me!"  
  
"Um," replies John, around a mouthful of toast. He doesn't know what to say. He's never really been able to tell which men are supposed to be handsome and which men aren't. Women always seem to make the strangest choices. And he didn't really notice anything special about Will when he met him. If anything, Will reminded him of Sherlock somehow: tall, thin and sharp-eyed.  
  
Mrs Hudson tuts. "Look who I'm talking to, anyway," she says. "I know you've only got eyes for..."  
  
"Come on, John." The conversation is abruptly cut short as Sherlock strides into the kitchen, fully dressed in coat and scarf, and plucks the slice of toast from John's hand, depositing it on the table. "Stop dawdling."  
  
John sighs. "Time to go, is it?"  
  
"If you don't want to be left behind," replies Sherlock, already throwing open the front door.  
  
Well, there's nothing to say to that. John grabs his coat, and gives Mrs Hudson a smile before following Sherlock down the stairs.  
  
***  
  
It's only when their taxi is pulling into the Strand that it dawns on John. "Hold on," he says. "Will said he found you through your website."  
  
Sherlock sniffs. "As do many people," he says.  
  
Oh, for the love of-- "Sherlock," says John, "have you put _our address_ on your website? Do you even know how dangerous that is?"  
  
Sherlock gives him a sideways look. "Since when have you been averse to danger, John? Besides," he waves a hand, "it's not like it isn't possible to find plenty of personal information on the Internet if you know where to look for it."  
  
"Yes," replies John, clenching his teeth, "but having to look for it is a bit different to having it right there on your website."  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "And this from the man who regularly tells the world what he had for dinner on his blog. At least our address is _interesting_."  
  
John takes a deep breath, but Sherlock's already getting out of his seat. "Just here, please," he says to the taxi driver.  
  
After the taxi's been paid for-- by John, of course-- there's a fair walk down a narrow looking alleyway to get to their destination.  
  
John glances around himself as he follows Sherlock, trying to keep pace with his long legs. It's an odd sort of place; like a maze, almost. The alley twists and turns unexpectedly and the tall buildings on either side loom above them. If John were the sort of person to believe in superstitious folk tales, he'd almost wonder what would be waiting for them at the end of it.  
  
Sherlock, however, appears unfazed by the location, and, as with anywhere in London, seems to know exactly where he's going.  
  
They turn a couple more corners before coming out into a small square. Sherlock sniffs, looking up at the buildings around them, eyes bright. "Gough Square," he says.  
  
"We're here?" John follows Sherlock's gaze. The square itself is small, but the Georgian brick buildings are all at least four stories high, giving the whole place a very claustrophobic feel in the fading evening light. "Wow," John finds himself saying without meaning to. "And Ed Merryweather's address is number 5? Does that mean he owns a whole house rather than a flat?"  
  
"It would seem so," says Sherlock, picking out the door to 5 Gough Square with ease and stepping up to ring the bell.  
  
While they're waiting for an answer, John looks up at the house in front of them. The thing is very imposing-- the amount of money it would take to buy a place like that in the heart of London. "I did think Will seemed a bit posh," John says, "but I wasn't expecting this."  
  
Sherlock snorts, but then there's a click as the door is unlocked from the inside. It opens to reveal a very pretty, petite woman in a tabard. She looks like she's been crying.  
  
Sherlock's already peering into the hallway over her shoulder. "We need to take a look around this house," he says.  
  
The woman seems bewildered, and John jumps into the conversation before Sherlock can say anything callous-- she looks like she might start crying again if they're not careful. "We're here about Edward Merryweather," John says. "Do you know him?"  
  
"Yes," she says, with a small nod and the hint of a very charming Eastern European accent. "Yes, I..." She bites her lip. "You are here to see him?"  
  
"No. No." John waves his hands. "His brother told us he'd gone missing. We've been hired to find him."  
  
"Oh," she says, sagging a little with what John hopes is relief.  
  
"May we come in and take a look around?" he asks.  
  
"Yes." She nods. "Yes, yes. Come in." And she holds the door open for them to step inside.  
  
The interior of the house is, if possible, even more grand than the outside. It's all tall ceilings and chandeliers and real oak floors. John takes a deep breath and tries not to let it out as a whistle.  
  
Sherlock brushes past with a knowing smile in John's direction-- which John decides to interpret as a thank you for being someone who can handle situations with some actual empathy-- and heads off to go do God knows what in one of the house's many rooms.  
  
Left alone with the girl-- which John is not complaining about in the slightest-- John decides to do some investigative work of his own. "Do you mind if we talk?" he asks her.  
  
She acquiesces and leads him into a well-kept, sweet-smelling kitchen that is possibly larger than their whole flat put together. Sitting down at the table, John pulls out his notebook.  
  
"So," he says. "You are...?"  
  
"Housekeeper." She replies. "For Mr Merryweather."  
  
"And how long have you worked here?"  
  
She stares at the table-top. "A while: two years."  
  
John gives her a sympathetic smile. "When did you last see Mr Merryweather?"  
  
"Yesterday morning," she says. "I tell him I bring him breakfast, but when I take it upstairs to his bedroom, he is gone."  
  
John frowns, and makes a note of it in his notebook. "Just like that?" he asks. "He didn't say anything?"  
  
"Nothing," she says sadly, pulling a tissue out of her pocket, and John has a very strong urge to hug her-- purely because it looks like she needs some comfort, and not because she is stunningly beautiful, even when her mascara is running.  
  
He coughs. "So, uh. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"  
  
She shrugs and blows her nose. "None. I don't even hear him leave. Maybe he go through front door. Maybe he go through back door. It was very quiet. Normally I hear front door, but maybe he can be quiet sometimes."  
  
John makes a note of that too. "Is there anything that makes you think he might be in trouble? Or in danger?"  
  
She looks up at John then, with these wide, shining eyes, and John realises that Sherlock's not the only one who can be callous without meaning to.  
  
"Sorry," he says, "sorry," and squeezes her hand. "We'll find Mr Merryweather. Definitely. Don't worry. We've already got the best man on the case."  
  
She smiles, but seems more upset than ever. Her shoulders shake as she wipes at her eyes, and John's heart breaks to see it.  
  
***  
  
John finds Sherlock in the master bedroom on the first floor, busy rummaging through drawers. Like the rest of the house, this room doesn't disappoint. It's as neatly-kept and smells as pleasant as the kitchen. The tightly-made bed is a big four-poster thing with silk curtains, there's a large mirror covering one wall, and through a door by the window is a roomy en-suite bathroom.  
  
After depositing the contents of several of the drawers onto the bed, Sherlock strides up to the mirror. Without hesitating, he pushes it in the centre, and one half of it swings open to reveal a large built-in wardrobe full of some very expensive looking suits. Most of them hardly seem to have been worn at all.  
  
"Wow," says John, staring in disbelief. "I don't think I could afford even one of these."  
  
"Six-foot two," says Sherlock.  
  
John pauses. "Sorry?"  
  
"Six-foot two," repeats Sherlock. "From the size of his clothes, I'd say he's six-foot two."  
  
"Ah," says John. "Being tall must run in the family then."  
  
Sherlock inspects the contents of the wardrobe, then turns around and makes his way up to the next floor. Here, there are more bedrooms, although they don't appear to be lived in, as most of the furniture is covered with dust sheets.  
  
After a very quick rummage through these rooms, Sherlock almost runs all the way up to the third floor. It's smaller than the other floors, with lower ceilings, and all it seems to contain are some storage rooms and an old, disused bathroom.  
  
After going through each of the rooms in turn, Sherlock makes an exasperated noise. "Wrong!" he cries. "Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!"  
  
"What?" John peers into a cupboard and is greeted by an ironing board. "What's wrong?"  
  
"No phone, John!" says Sherlock spinning around to look at him. "There's no house phone, no mobile charger, no sign of a phone in the whole house!"  
  
"But," John starts. "Will said he phoned Ed every evening! How can he, without..." He thinks about it for a moment. "Maybe Ed took his phone charger with him when he left?"  
  
Sherlock scoffs and shoves his hands in his pockets. He paces up and down the landing a couple of times, then turns on his heel to face John. "So," says Sherlock, "did you find out anything useful from your chat in the kitchen?"  
  
"Ah. Yes I did, actually." John pulls his notebook out of his pocket. "The housekeeper was here when Ed disappeared; he was in his bedroom and she was in the kitchen. But when she went to take his breakfast up to him, he was already gone."  
  
Sherlock presses his lips together in thought.  
  
"And," continues John, "she didn't hear him leave, which means it's unlikely that he went out the front door, which is right next to the kitchen."  
  
"The back door, then," says Sherlock.  
  
"Or maybe a window," suggests John. "I was thinking that..."  
  
"No," says Sherlock dismissively. "I checked the sills. No-one has climbed in or out of any of the windows in this house. Not recently anyway." He smiles. "Which means..." Turning around, Sherlock dashes into the small bathroom at the back of the house.  
  
Following, John finds Sherlock hoisting open the sash window and leaning out almost precariously far.  
  
"The garden!" Retracting his head, Sherlock turns to run down the stairs without even bothering to shut the window behind him.  
  
***  
  
The entrance to the garden is through two ornate glass doors in the living room. Together, John and Sherlock pass through these onto a terrace and then down some steps to a vast expanse of green-- and it _is_ vast. The garden is not that wide, but it's long, and it's surrounded on all sides by tall box hedges to give it privacy from the neighbouring gardens.  
  
John has always been a fan of gardens-- even though he can hardly even remember when he last had one of his own-- and this one really is superb. It's not easy to see that much, as the sun had set almost completely while they were in the house, but this garden seems to be a pretty formal affair, with plenty of bushes and shrubs. And it seems like someone is a fan of topiary, because a large number of the bushes have been shaped into something or other.  
  
From where John stands, he can make out what seems to be a fox, and a lion -- and the darkness must be playing tricks on his eyes, because he can almost swear that the bush beside him has been cut into the shape of two vultures squabbling over a carcass.  
  
It's just when John has discovered that the carcass appears to be headless that Sherlock stalks up to him from where he's been investigating further down the garden.  
  
It's hard to tell in the dim light, but Sherlock almost looks troubled. "There's something odd about this garden, John," he says.  
  
"Odd?" asks John. "You mean the unusual choice of topiary?"  
  
"Well, yes." A smirk scuttles over Sherlock's face. "But not just that, John; something's not right." He sighs and looks around. "It's too dark to investigate properly. There's a gap in the hedge down at the end of the garden, but I can't see where it leads. We'll have to come back tomorrow when it's lighter."  
  
John gives the vultures one last look. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I suppose you're right."  
  
***  
  
As they're leaving, the housekeeper emerges from the kitchen to show them out. She doesn't look much happier than when they arrived.  
  
John can't bear to see her like this. "Don't worry," he says, in the most comforting voice he can. "We'll find him. It seems like he might have left through the garden, so we're going to come back to take a look at it tomorrow."  
  
"Ok," she says, with a small, sad smile.  
  
John smiles in response. How wonderful it would be to see her truly happy; her real smile must be beautiful.  
  
It's only when they're almost out the door that John suddenly realises he's forgotten something important. He turns around on the doorstep. "Sorry," he says to the housekeeper, "but we never introduced ourselves, did we?" He gives an embarrassed laugh. "I'm John and this is Sherlock." John gestures at Sherlock, who's busy studying the brickwork beside the door-frame.  
  
"Ah." She makes another attempt at a smile. "Yes."  
  
John licks his lips. "And, could I ask your...?"  
  
"Anna," she says. "It is nice to meet you, John and Sherlock."  
  
"Nice to meet you too," replies John, and then, with a small nod of her head, she shuts the door and is gone.  
  
John finds it hard not to grin to himself as they make their way out of the square and back through the alleyway to Fleet Street. Anna. What a beautiful name for a beautiful person. John wonders if-- Maybe once they find Ed and finish the case then John could--  
  
"You're barking up the wrong tree," says Sherlock.  
  
John starts, and looks up to see Sherlock giving him a sly grin. "What?" asks John, trying to suppress a surge of annoyance at the sight of it. "Are you trying to tell me she's...?"  
  
"She's taken, John," replies Sherlock, "by Ed Merryweather."  
  
John lets out a breath very slowly as he feels his hopes shatter around him. He could try to convince himself that Sherlock's wrong, but-- He sighs. "Ok then," he says to Sherlock. "How?"  
  
Sherlock's smile tightens into something small and smug as he looks up. "Lipstick smudge on the sink in the en-suite bathroom," he says.  
  
"What?" asks John. "Only that? You're basing everything on..."  
  
Sherlock's smile twitches. "Plus imprint marks from stiletto heels on the rug in the living room. Shoe size 4; a perfect match for her feet, but no-one ever wears stiletto heels if all they're doing is cleaning all day. Add to that the fact that the smell of her perfume is all over the bedroom, far more so than in the rest of the house, which strongly suggests that she sleeps in there. And, of course," he waves a hand, "the house would never be that messy if there was a real housekeeper looking after it." He gives John a sideways glance. "Therefore, she is not Ed's housekeeper but his _lover_. Although why they would try to conceal that fact... I can only assume that a man like Ed is embarrassed to have fallen for a Polish girl."  
  
John sighs again, and it takes him a moment to notice what Sherlock has said. "Wait a moment," says John. "You're complaining that _that_ house is messy? Sherlock, that house is spotless! Have you even seen our own flat? It's a bombsite in comparison!"  
  
Instead of changing the subject, or trying to wheedle his way out of the housework as normal, Sherlock turns and gives John a very strange look. It’s as if John has just said the most perplexing thing that Sherlock has ever heard.  
  
John goes to explain himself further, but Sherlock has already turned onto Fleet Street and is hailing a taxi.  
  
***  
  
The next morning, as soon as the sun begins to peep through the curtains, John is woken up by a screeching noise beside his ear. At first, he thinks it's the sound of gunfire, and he's up and standing straight, heart racing, before he realises where he is: home, in his room, with Sherlock sitting beside his bed, holding a violin.  
  
Sherlock stands, tapping the bow on his shoulder. "More efficient than an alarm clock," he declares in response to John's startled confusion. "Come on, John," he calls over his shoulder as he trots down the stairs. "We're going back to Gough Square."  
  
Exhausted, even though he's only just woken up, John stumbles off into the shower. He would try to be angry, but he doesn't have the energy. After all, deny it though he might, he's eager to go back to Gough Square too.  
  
By the time John's dressed, it's only 7am. Yawning, he makes his way into the living room, determined to force Sherlock to at least let him have breakfast before they go. It's just as John enters the kitchen that the door to the flat is flung open.  
  
"Mr Holmes." Will Merryweather enters the living room as if he owns the place, and throws himself down onto the couch. "How goes the search? Have you found my brother yet? I know it's early, but I get so _worried_ just waiting."  
  
From where he's sitting at the kitchen table, Sherlock gives him a cool glance. "No telephone," he says.  
  
Will frowns. "Sorry, what?"  
  
"No telephone!" repeats Sherlock, standing up and making his way into the living room. "There was no telephone in your brother's house and yet you expect us to believe that you _phoned_ him every single night." Staring down at Will like that, Sherlock almost reminds John of one of those box hedges that they found in Ed's garden: looming and dark and tall.  
  
Will tosses his head and waves a hand. "Of course he doesn't have a house phone," he says. "I only ever phone his mobile."  
  
Sherlock snorts. "Which he never charges? There were no mobile accessories in the whole house. I hardly think that..."  
  
"Well, they must have been taken when he disappeared, mustn't they?" says Will, running a hand over his mouth. "I'm telling you: I ring him on his mobile. But when I try to ring him now, it goes straight to his answer phone." He looks up at Sherlock with wide eyes. "You've got to believe me, Mr Holmes. He always answers his phone! This never happens!"  
  
Sherlock's already pulled out his own phone. "Number," he says.  
  
Will gapes for a moment. "What?"  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Your brother's mobile number," he says. "What is it?"  
  
"Ah." Will shrinks back into the couch a little and scrubs at his chin. "That's where it gets a bit tricky."  
  
Sherlock stares at him.  
  
"My phone got stolen," explains Will. "Yesterday evening. Look, I don't know if it's related to Ed's going missing or not, but I... I don't have his number stored anywhere else."  
  
"And you don't even remember it slightly?" asks John, dumbfounded. "You rang him every day."  
  
Sherlock paces to the window and back. "We need to know more about your brother," he says. "Jobs, hobbies, bad habits, good habits, friends, enemies..."  
  
Will looks worried. "You think this is serious, then?" he asks. "You think he might have had enemies that would...?"  
  
"Ah, no," says John, with a glance at Sherlock. "No. We just... It helps to know all the facts."  
  
"Oh. Right," says Will, biting his lip. "Right. Of course." He frowns. "I didn't know he had any enemies, though. Until he went missing, that is."  
  
Sherlock holds very still for a split-second, then paces some more. "Your brother has a lot of money; expensive house, expensive clothes." He turns to Will. "What did you say he does for a living?"  
  
"Er..." Will flushes slightly, and plucks at a thread on the cuff of his jacket. "Our father was a very rich man," he says.  
  
"Inheritance, then?" asks John. Which would explain why someone might go after Ed. Could this be a hostage situation? John looks to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock smiles and grabs up his coat, putting it on. "We have to go," he says. "There's a lot to do if we're going to find your brother." He looks at Will. "If you don't mind."  
  
Will stares for a moment before he realises what's expected of him. "Ah. Right," he says, jumping up from the couch. "Yes." He gives the room one last glance. "I'll let you get on with it, then."  
  
"We'll do all we can to find him," says John, as he ushers Will out of the door.  
  
As they hear Will's footsteps on the stairs, followed by the front door slamming shut, Sherlock tugs on his scarf with a smirk. "So..." he says.  
  
"He's lying." John grins, feeling a rather proud that he was able to notice. "He's definitely lying. There's no way he phones his brother."  
  
"Of course not." Sherlock stuffs his gloves into his pockets and steps out of the flat onto the landing.  
  
"But why?" wonders John, as he picks up his coat and follows Sherlock down the stairs. "Why would he lie about that?"  
  
Over his shoulder, Sherlock flashes John a smile.  
  
***  
  
The alleyways leading from Fleet Street feel wider in the light of day, less like something out of a fairy-tale picture book, while Gough Square itself looks larger and less claustrophobic. There's an odd statue of a cat at one end of the square, which John hadn't noticed the night before. While Sherlock steps up to Ed's house and rings the doorbell, John glances down at the plaque on the plinth.  
  
"Oh!" says John as he reads. He turns around. "It says that the house over there belonged to Dr Johnson."  
  
Sherlock looks at him and frowns. "Friend of yours?"  
  
John can't help but laugh in disbelief. "Er, no," he says. "Samuel Johnson. You know? 18th century? Very clever? Wrote the dictionary?" He looks over at Sherlock. "You have absolutely no idea who I'm talking about, do you?"  
  
Sherlock smiles. "None whatsoever," he says, and looks up as the door in front of him opens.  
  
Anna seems just as upset as she did the day before, but she acquiesces and lets them inside without complaint.  
  
Despite having seen it all last night, John is still in awe at the size of the house and the way it's furnished. If this was all paid for by inheritance-- John can only imagine what it would be like to fall into that kind of money; fantastic, most likely.  
  
In the living room, the doors to the garden are hidden by drawn curtains. John pulls them back. "So," he says, "do you think we should go look around the garden now, or do you want to check over the rest of the house again first?"  
  
The response is silence, and when John turns around, he realises that the reason is because he's completely alone, and must have been for some time. "Right," he says, cringing inwardly. "Good."  
  
With nothing else to do, John decides to poke around and see if he can find any signs of where Ed Merryweather might have gone. The living room contains some plush couches, and there's a large ornate mirror hanging above the open fireplace, but nothing seems to be out of the ordinary other than the television set, which occupies half the room and appears to be the size of a modest cinema.  
  
Jesus-- John doesn't even want to know what a TV that size would cost. He glances at it curiously, but decides to inspect the rest of the room instead, checking through drawers and leafing through a pile of papers.  
  
Five minutes later, there's still no sign of Sherlock. John looks back over at the TV. It _is_ impressive. Hesitantly, he supposes that it wouldn't hurt if he just turned it on for a second.  
  
Unfortunately, when John presses the power button, the TV gives him nothing but hissing and static. Disappointed, he tries changing the channel, but the static only gets worse. John's just attempting to change the channel again when Sherlock walks in.  
  
"You'll need to move the aerial for it to work, John," he says.  
  
"The aerial?" John frowns. Is Sherlock really suggesting that he climb onto the roof? "What do you mean?"  
  
Sherlock gives him an odd look. "It's simple," he says. "The picture is fuzzy because the aerial needs repositioning." Then, stepping up to the TV, Sherlock makes a strange sort of gesture above the set with his hand, and suddenly a picture appears.  
  
"Wow," says John, without meaning to. "That's...! What did... What did you just do?"  
  
Sherlock frowns at him. "I moved the aerial, like I said." He glances at the TV and sniffs. "Picture's not too bad for a twelve-inch screen."  
  
"What?" John scratches at his head. "Only twelve-inches? What are you...?"  
  
Sherlock flashes him a strange glance before throwing open the doors to the garden. "Is it too early in the morning for you to keep up, John?"  
  
"What? No," replies John, frowning as he follows Sherlock outside and down the steps to the lawn. "No, I'm... fine."  
  
The garden looks far more distinct in the pale light of the morning than it did the day before, and the grass of the lawn is wet beneath their feet as they walk out onto it. Sherlock sniffs, his brow furrowing.  
  
"Where did you go off to, anyway?" asks John. "I thought you were behind me, but when I turned around, you were gone."  
  
"Talking to the housekeeper," declares Sherlock, striding ahead. "Trying to gather more information about Ed Merryweather." He huffs in irritation. "I should have spoken to her sooner. If I'd paid more attention, I would have noticed yesterday."  
  
"Noticed?" John hurries to catch up. "Noticed what?"  
  
Sherlock stops and spins on his heel to face John with a smile. "Crocodile tears, John."  
  
"Crocodile tears...?" John frowns. "Wait... You mean...?"  
  
"She's not upset at all," explains Sherlock. "Good actor though; I nearly believed her."  
  
"Wait," John struggles to keep up as Sherlock turns and starts walking again. "Why is she...? You don't think she's part of...?"  
  
"Too early to say," replies Sherlock. "First, though, we need to find out if Ed left through the garden." He turns. "John, I want you to look for any signs that someone might have gotten out of the garden through the hedge: broken twigs, pieces of clothing, scuff-marks in the soil, that sort of thing."  
  
"Right," says John with a nod.  
  
"It'll be quicker if we split the work between us." Sherlock glances at the shrubs around them. "You take the half closest to the house. I'm going to the bottom of the garden." And with that, he turns and strides on, his coat waving behind him.  
  
John stops and looks at the garden. It's a big place, even if he's only supposed to be checking half of it-- a thorough search is going to take a while. With a resigned sigh, John decides to do it systematically. He heads back up the garden, and begins to inspect the tall box hedges beside the house.  
  
As he works, John can't get over the thought of Anna lying. Why would she pretend to be upset? Did she not like Ed? Was she only in it for the money? As likely as it might seem, John can't believe that someone like her would have a hand in a kidnapping.  
  
Twenty minutes pass in this way. Trying not to be distracted by thoughts of the housekeeper, John checks the hedges carefully, but he sees no sign of forced exit or entry. In fact, when it comes down to it, the whole garden is pristine; there's not even a weed in sight. Despite looking as hard as he can, all John has been able to deduce is that the unusual topiary he saw the day before was actually a trick of light.  
  
Now, in broad daylight, John can see that what he thought was a lion is, in fact, a poodle, and what he thought were vultures are nothing more than a couple of peacocks. There's still more topiary than is normal for a town garden, but at least it's a little less grisly than it seemed.  
  
He checks the next bush along. A scuttling noise sounds from the foliage, like a small bird scratching around on the floor, but there's no sign that anything other than animals and birds have been this way. With a sigh, John pockets his notebook and stands up straight in an attempt to stretch his aching back.  
  
There's a sudden crash from the bushes behind him, and John jumps around to see Sherlock leaning into them, looking rather dazed.  
  
"John, I..." Sherlock slides down to sit on the grass and presses his palms to his temples. "I think I may be hallucinating."  
  
"What?" Worried, John crouches down and gets Sherlock to look up. His pupils seem fine. "Why?" asks John. "Have you taken something?" John presses a hand to Sherlock's forehead, then takes his pulse. Apart from a slightly elevated heart-rate, everything seems normal, as far as John can tell.  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. "This garden's not right," he says.  
  
John frowns. It's alarming to see Sherlock so shaken. "Not right, how? Sherlock, are you hurt? What's happened?"  
  
Sherlock clambers to his feet, leaning on the bush beside him for support, then lurches off in the direction of the house. "We have to go," he declares. "I can't stay here. Not now."  
  
Concerned, John hurries after him and offers Sherlock his shoulder for support.

***

By the time they get back to Fleet Street, it's clear that Sherlock can stand on his own without any assistance. His face looks pale though, and he remains oddly quiet until they're halfway home in the taxi.  
  
He sighs, then opens his eyes. "John, did you see anything unusual in the garden?"  
  
Unusual? John shakes his head. "No."  
  
Sherlock presses his fingers to his lips and frowns to himself for a moment. Then he looks at John. "Yesterday, I said there was a gap in the hedge down at the bottom of the garden. I tried to look down it then, but the light was too dim for me to see anything."  
  
John nods. "And that's why you wanted to go back today."  
  
"Mmm." Sherlock frowns some more. "The gap is quite small, but it's just large enough for a grown man to squeeze through. I thought Ed Merryweather could have left the garden that way, so today, I tried to pass through it myself." He purses his lips. "It ended up being longer than I thought it was, though; more of a narrow path between the bushes than a gap, really. So I followed the path to see where it would..." Sherlock throws his head back against the seat and rubs at his eyes. "God, I feel like I'm going mad."  
  
Once again, John is filled with concern at how unsettled Sherlock seems, but he tries not to let it show. "Sherlock," he says, trying to lighten the mood. "You're _always_ mad."  
  
Sherlock tilts his head to look at him and gives John a weary smile. John smiles in return.  
  
With a sigh, Sherlock sits up and scrubs a hand through his hair. "As the path went on," he says, "the hedges started to get more wild and overgrown, with ivy and hawthorn growing in and out of the box plants and trailing out across the path, making it narrower and narrower. It was quite hard to get through." He licks his lips. "I was just beginning to think that Ed wouldn't have been able to leave the garden that way, when I saw someone up ahead."  
  
John starts. "There was someone in the garden?"  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. "No," he says. "It was a reflection. Someone had put a mirror at the end of the path."  
  
John frowns. "A mirror? Whoever designed that garden has some weird tastes."  
  
Sherlock sighs. "But as I made my way closer to my reflection, I couldn't see the glass. Either the mirror was highly polished-- unlikely, as it's so out of the way-- or..." Sherlock looks up. "John, when I got close enough, I realised that my reflection was smiling. And then," he frowns, "it _winked_ at me."  
  
John holds his breath. He doesn't believe in superstitious folk tales, but there's one that springs to his mind of its own accord. He was told, as a child, that there was once a boy who travelled down a deserted lane and met himself coming in the other direction. John doesn't remember much of the story, except that the boy died afterwards, ranting about fairies and nonsense. Stupid, really, but John's jaw clenches without him meaning for it to.  
  
"Did you see anything else?" he asks.  
  
"No." Sherlock folds his arms and slumps down in his seat. "I immediately assumed that I had been drugged and went to check that you weren't affected too."  
  
John lets out a long breath. "Well, I'm glad nothing worse happened," he says, more than grateful to see their flat come into view as the taxi turns the corner into Baker Street.  
  
***  
  
Mrs Hudson comes out of her flat to greet them as they make their way in through the front door. "Is... Is everything ok?" she asks, as Sherlock slowly makes his way up the stairs, clutching at his head.  
  
"I think so," says John over the banister as he follows Sherlock up. "Sherlock's had a bit of a turn, but I'm going to keep an eye on him."  
  
"Oh dear." Mrs Hudson puts her hands to her chest. "I hope he's all right. Let me know if you need anything."  
  
John smiles. "Will do."  
  
"Oh!" cries Mrs Hudson, just as Sherlock reaches the door to their flat. "I almost forgot! There's that gentleman here to see you, Sherlock!" She waves her hands. "I didn't realise you'd be ill, so I said he could wait upstairs for you!"  
  
John rushes up into the flat to see Will comfortably seated in an armchair.  
  
Will tosses away the magazine he'd been reading and stands up, straightening an already immaculate tie. "Ah! Mr Holmes."  
  
Sherlock throws himself down to lie on the couch, wrapping his coat around him.  
  
"Did you..." starts Will.  
  
"Am I to be hounded constantly?" Sherlock asks the room. He turns his head and gives Will a contemptuous look. "Are you here for a reason, or have you just come to annoy me?"  
  
"Look," says Will, "I just..."  
  
"Annoy me it is then," declares Sherlock.  
  
Will's lips thin to a narrow line.  
  
"Wait." John jumps in before things turn uglier. "Sorry," he says to Will. "This isn't really a good time right now. Do you think you could come back later?"  
  
Will looks at him for a moment, then sighs. "I suppose so," he says sadly, scratching a hand through his hair. "I just can't stop thinking about what might have happened to my brother, is all. If you have any news about where he's gone..."  
  
John gives him a tight smile. "Rest assured we're working on it. We'll let you know as soon as we find anything."  
  
"Ok." Will nods and resignedly makes his way to the door.  
  
It's just as Will's got a hand on the door handle that Sherlock sits up, swinging his legs onto the floor. "Your brother's garden," he asks suddenly. "What do you think of it?"  
  
Will hesitates then turns around with a smile. "My brother," he says, apologetically, "has ridiculous tastes."  
  
***  
  
John forces Sherlock to rest for the remainder of the day. Sherlock complains about it but, surprisingly, does as he's told, sleeping right there on the couch for a good few hours. John also tells Sherlock that he should eat something, at which suggestion Sherlock looks personally affronted, and then goes on to insult John's cooking skills.  
  
Luckily, it's at that moment that Mrs Hudson turns up with two bowls of porridge.  
  
"Thought you could do with something to perk you up," she says, setting the tray on the coffee table. "How are you doing?" she asks Sherlock. "Still feeling a bit _funny_?"  
  
"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson," replies Sherlock. He gives John a smile. "I'm in good hands. Tediously overbearing hands, yes, but good hands nonetheless."  
  
John picks up one of the bowls of porridge and sits down with it in an armchair. "Thank you for this, Mrs Hudson," he says. "You didn't have to."  
  
"Nonsense." Mrs Hudson waves a hand. "I wanted to make sure everything was all right." She watches as Sherlock picks up the other bowl and sniffs at it. "How's it going, anyway?" she asks. "Have you been able to find that poor man's brother yet? He looked even more worried today than he did yesterday."  
  
John would answer, but he's too busy being astounded by the fact that Sherlock has picked up a spoon and has, apparently, started eating too. John shakes his head. "Sorry, what? Will's brother? We haven't found him yet, Mrs Hudson, no."  
  
Mrs Hudson tuts. "Such a sad business," she says. "You know, my mother always used to say that the missing people on the news had been stolen away by fairies. She'd have changed her mind if she'd heard about that business with my husband and the bus-driver though." Her eyes widen suddenly. "Not that I'm saying the same thing has happened to that man's brother!" She flaps her hands. "Ooh, ignore me. I'm sure you'll find him soon, Sherlock."  
  
John makes a noise of agreement around a mouthful of porridge.  
  
"Actually," Sherlock taps his spoon against the rim of his bowl, "about that, John. I'll need you to get changed. We're going out."  
  
"Changed?" John swallows. "Where are we going?"  
  
"To test a theory," replies Sherlock. "Now," he smiles, "I know it'll be difficult for you, but I want you to at least try to look like you earn a lot of money."  
  
***  
  
"So," asks John, adjusting his tie as their taxi cuts through the rush hour traffic, "are you sure you're feeling better?"  
  
"Much," replies Sherlock with a smile as if John's concern is both idiotic and endearing.  
  
For a moment, they both watch as a motorcycle overtakes them.  
  
"Who do you think did it?" asks John. "You don't think that it was...?"  
  
"On reflection," says Sherlock, "I can't think of a time this morning when anyone had the opportunity to drug me."  
  
"You mean...?" starts John.  
  
Sherlock gives him a sly smile. "It wasn't the housekeeper, John."  
  
Not Anna? John finds himself breathing a sigh of relief without even meaning to. "But," he says, "someone must have..."  
  
Sherlock looks at him. "You were able to assess me well enough. Other than the hallucinations, did I show any symptoms of having been drugged?"  
  
John frowns, and after a few moments consideration, reluctantly has to admit that there weren't any. But he can't let it go that easily. Without meaning to, he finds himself thinking back to that folk tale. "Sherlock," he says, hesitantly, "have you ever heard the story about the boy who walked down the lane and met himself coming the other way?"  
  
Sherlock looks at him as if he's gone mad. "What?"  
  
John laughs, embarrassed. "Er, it's a fairy-tale I heard when I was younger." He scratches at his head. "It's just... It's nothing."  
  
Sherlock frowns. "Fairy-tale?"  
  
"Wait." It's John's turn to be confused. "Sherlock, you have heard of fairy stories, haven't you?"  
  
Sherlock looks blank. "Am I supposed to have done?"  
  
John stares in disbelief. "You... No, wait. Why am I even surprised anymore?" He shakes his head. "Sherlock, fairy stories are tales told to children. Fantasy stories, that sort of stuff."  
  
Sherlock scoffs, sinking down in his seat. "Ugh. Fiction. No wonder I deleted it."  
  
"Well," John shrugs, "some people believe they're true. Of course," he chuckles, "they're also the kind of people who believe in magic and aliens and ghosts. And all those ridiculous government conspiracies."  
  
Sherlock gives him a steady look.  
  
"Wait." John frowns, suddenly uncertain. "What are... You don't mean..."  
  
Sherlock smirks. "One day, John, I'm going to show you how to hack into Mycroft's blackberry." And he sits up to look out of the window as the taxi pulls up to the kerb.  
  
John hadn't been paying much attention to where they were going, but he recognises where they are easily enough when he steps out of the taxi. "Bishopsgate?" The path is streaming with people on their way home from work, and John has to make a complicated manoeuvre in order to stop a woman with a wheeled suitcase from walking into him. "What are we doing here?"  
  
"Ed Merryweather's watering hole," replies Sherlock, turning off the main road and onto a side street. He grins. "Talking to the housekeeper _did_ have its uses."  
  
The side street is narrow, and halfway down is a tall pub, its patrons spilling out into the road to chat and smoke. As they make their way towards it, John almost wonders if he'll have time for a drink or two while Sherlock's doing whatever it is that he wants to do-- wishful thinking, most likely, but it never hurts to be hopeful.  
  
Sherlock leans close. "Play along," he says, then briskly walks up and pushes his way in through the pub's crowded doorway.  
  
The interior of the pub is even more crowded than the outside. It looks like it's hardly a big place at the best of times, but it's currently filled with a suffocating amount of people, most of them dressed smartly and looking like they've just left work for the day. It's only as John's midway through struggling towards the bar-- an almost suicidal undertaking-- that he realises the reason there are so many people out for a drink is that it's a Friday.  
  
"I'll get the next round, ok?" shouts Sherlock over the hubbub, which, of course, is code to say that it's John who gets the privilege of paying for their drinks this time.  
  
John sighs, and considers ordering Sherlock the most disgusting thing he can find; although, ordering anything is going to be difficult enough from the looks of things. The bar is packed with people waiting to be served and, even though one of the barmaids is free, it's almost impossible to get her attention.  
  
"So," shouts Sherlock as he waits with John beside the bar, "he should be here soon. You'll like him. He's very dry."  
  
John strains to hear over the noise. "Who?"  
  
"Ed Merryweather," says Sherlock, taking off his scarf and stuffing it in his pocket. "I met him last week. Very funny man."  
  
"What?" asks John, confused. "You mean..."  
  
"Yeah," says Sherlock. "We're meeting to settle a little wager." He grins in John's direction. "Want to know how much I won?"  
  
John goes to ask what's going on, but he's distracted when another member of the bar staff comes over and he is finally able to order their drinks. By the time he's finished, he sees that Sherlock has moved out of the fray and over to stand by a tall table, his coat slung carelessly onto the tabletop.  
  
John pushes through the crowd towards him, careful not to spill their drinks on the way. He hadn't known what to get for Sherlock-- and, to be honest, he can't imagine Sherlock drinking at all-- so in the end, he decided to just buy them both same thing. After all, John can always drink it if Sherlock doesn't want it.  
  
"Ah, cheers," says Sherlock, taking his pint as John passes it to him, then placing it on the table. Sherlock looks around the room. "No sign of Ed yet, apparently."  
  
"Mm," John sips his own pint, then puts it down. He's still curious as to what Sherlock's up to with this conversation, but he tries to get into the spirit of it as best he can. "What's this about?" he asks. "You won a bet with him?"  
  
"Yeah." Sherlock grins. "£500! Not bad at all." He leans an elbow on the tabletop and snorts a laugh. "Ed Merryweather might be a nice guy, but he knows absolutely nothing about horses!"  
  
John frowns. "Why'd he bet if he didn't know anything about..."  
  
"Oh," Sherlock waves a hand, "Ed was willing to bet on _anything_." He leans forward conspiratorially, but doesn't lower his voice at all. "If you ask me, I think he was three sheets to the wind that night."  
  
"And you?" asks John, probing, just to see what Sherlock will say. "Were you drunk too?"  
  
Sherlock grins at him. "Absolutely wankered!"  
  
John giggles into his pint. He doesn't mean to, but that image is just so--  
  
"Excuse me," says a voice from behind them. "Did I hear you talking about Ed Merryweather?"  
  
John turns to see a stocky guy in his late thirties smiling at them.  
  
"Ed Merryweather? Yeah." Sherlock looks hopeful and cranes his neck to glance around the pub. "Is he here?"  
  
The guy sets his drink on the table. "Not as far as I know," he replies, holding out a hand. "It's Tim. Nice to meet you."  
  
"Sherlock," says Sherlock, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you, Tim."  
  
"Ah. John," says John, as Tim reaches over to shake his hand too.  
  
"So," announces Sherlock, folding his arms on the tabletop, "you know Ed then?"  
  
Tim nods. "We've known each other for a while," he says. "Ed comes in here quite often, especially when Gemma's on shift behind the bar."  
  
"Sounds right," agrees Sherlock, "He was talking to the barmaid when I met him in here last week."  
  
Tim leans on the table. "Look," he says, sucking on his teeth, "I don't mean to pry, but did I just hear you say that you'd won a bet with Ed?"  
  
Sherlock laughs gleefully. "You did," he says. "That's why I'm meeting him here today, actually. He owes me quite a bit of money!"  
  
"Hmm." Tim looks confused. "How much did you bet?"  
  
Sherlock curls his hands around his pint glass and grins. "£500."  
  
"That's..." Tim takes a sip of his drink. "Hmm." He shakes his head.  
  
For a moment, John worries that their game is up. "Something wrong?" he asks Tim.  
  
"No," says Tim. "It's just..." He scratches at the side of his mouth. "I'd never known Ed to be a betting man before."  
  
Sherlock snorts. "He seemed like a betting man when I met him."  
  
Tim frowns. "Are..." He looks at Sherlock. "Are we sure we're talking about the same person?"  
  
Sherlock shrugs. "I thought so," he says. "Ed Merryweather? Tall guy? You know. Lives just off of..." He sighs and clicks his fingers.  
  
"Fleet Street," provides Tim.  
  
"Fleet Street," says Sherlock. "Yeah. That's the one."  
  
Tim looks even more confused. He scratches his head. "Well, that certainly sounds like Ed."  
  
"And he doesn't bet often?" asks John.  
  
"I've never known him to make a bet before in my life," says Tim. "He's always really careful with his money."  
  
"What?" Sherlock grins. "You mean when he's not pissing it away on alcohol? Because he was _pretty drunk_ when I met him."  
  
Tim frowns. "I've not known him get that drunk either. He never has more than a couple of drinks. Doesn't want to appear worse for wear in front of Gemma, most likely." He quirks a smile. "And you're lucky if you can persuade him to get a round in either."  
  
Sherlock stands back and shoves his hands in his pockets. "So," he says. "What are you...?"  
  
"Look." Tim holds up his hands. "I don't want to be rude or anything but, for a bet that large... I just..." He gives a rueful smile. "I worry that Ed might have been taken advantage of."  
  
"Hey hey hey." Sherlock waves his hands. "Hold on. Look. I'm..." He huffs. "I didn't pressure him if that's what you're thinking. It was Ed's idea to have a bit of a flutter. He was really adamant that he wanted to put some money on this one horse and..." Sherlock holds up a finger. "Wait. Actually. Wait a moment. He signed a piece of paper with me so that we could prove..." Sherlock fumbles with the pockets of his coat, then makes a show of rummaging through the pockets of his trousers. Eventually, after not turning up anything, Sherlock swears under his breath and gives an exasperated sigh. "I don't have it."  
  
Tim stares at him. "It's fine. You don't have to..."  
  
Sherlock looks around. "John, did you see me drop a piece of paper on my way in here?"  
  
John shrugs. "I didn't notice anything."  
  
Sherlock bites his lip and sighs. He turns to Tim. "Look," says Sherlock. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to go get it. I've probably left it at home, and I know that Ed's going to want to see it before he pays up."  
  
Tim smiles. "Sure thing," he says.  
  
Sherlock tugs on his coat. "John, can you give me your house keys? I don't have mine and I need to go and..."  
  
John knows a cue when he sees one. "No, it's ok," he says, downing the rest of his pint. "I'll come too."  
  
Sherlock gives him a smile. "Good man. Now, if we..." Sherlock pauses in the middle of putting on his scarf. "Oh." He turns to Tim. "Do you think Ed's going to show tonight?"  
  
Tim shakes his head. "I don't know. Sometimes I see him on a Friday, but I actually haven't seen him for over a week now. Nor have any of the bar staff; not even Gemma." He gives Sherlock an apologetic smile. "We'd assumed he'd gone on holiday or something."  
  
Sherlock sighs. "No problem," he says. "If Ed does show up today, will you tell him I was here? I'll come back and try to catch him tomorrow."  
  
Tim smiles. "Will do." He gives them both a nod. "Nice meeting you."  
  
"You too," says Sherlock. "Have a good evening," and with that, he turns and pushes his way through the crowd to the door.  
  
"Goodnight," says John, and gives Sherlock's pint-- completely untouched-- a forlorn look before he follows off in Sherlock's wake.  
  
***  
  
It's never not disconcerting to see Sherlock drop the mask as quickly as he puts it on. By the time they make their way back to Bishopsgate, all signs of the brash, cheerful Sherlock from the pub are gone, his face blank as he hails a taxi.  
  
"So," says John, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "even if he is having an affair with the barmaid, it sounds like she's not seen Ed for a while. Another dead end there then?"  
  
"Not exactly, John," says Sherlock over his shoulder as their taxi pulls up and he climbs inside. "I've just confirmed something quite important."  
  
John frowns as he climbs in afterwards. "And what's that? You think the barmaid knows where Ed is?"  
  
"Unlikely. Did you see how she kept staring at the door like she was hoping he'd turn up? She knows as little about his whereabouts as the rest of us." Sherlock leans forward and directs the cabbie to Baker Street. "No, John, this isn't about the barmaid at all. It's about money." He sits back and presses his fingertips to his lips. "Ed is very careful with his money; always has been. He doesn't give it away easily; which, of course, makes the difference between them all the more striking."  
  
John's finding it hard to follow along. "Wait," he says, trying to understand, as the taxi pulls away from the kerb. "What do you mean? The difference between who?"  
  
"Money," repeats Sherlock. "Ed Merryweather has it. Has quite a lot of it, in fact."  
  
"Yes," says John, frowning, "but didn't we..."  
  
"His brother," says Sherlock, flashing John a grin, "doesn't."  
  
If anything, that only makes John more confused. "But I thought Will was quite rich too," he says.  
  
"Well, of course _you_ would," says Sherlock dismissively, then rolls his eyes when John takes affront.  
  
"Come on," tuts Sherlock. "Not like that." He looks John in the eye. "Will Merryweather intends for people to think he's got a lot of money, and most people, including yourself, would accept it at face value. But if you look carefully, you'll see that his clothes, while expensive, are _old_. There are scuff marks on the toes of his shoes, and holes in the lining of his jacket."  
  
"So," says John, as he tries to follow the line of reasoning, "that means that..." John scratches his head. "Wait. What does that mean?" He looks at Sherlock. "If you're trying to say that Will is after his brother's money, then surely..." John falters. "If... If Will was responsible for his brother's disappearance, then why is he asking us to find him?"  
  
Sherlock drums his fingers against the seat. "We need to find Ed Merryweather," he says.  
  
***  
  
The rest of the cab journey is conducted in silence. When they get home, John is fully expecting for Sherlock to have another plan of action, so he's quite surprised when the first thing Sherlock does is throw off his coat and collapse down onto the couch.  
  
John hovers for a moment, uncertain as to whether he'll be needed or not. "Um," he says.  
  
Sherlock looks up with a start, almost as if he'd forgotten that John was there altogether. "Oh, John," he waves a hand, "you should probably relax. Have dinner or go to bed or something."  
  
John stares. "You don't... I thought you wanted to find Ed?"  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Well, of course I do," he agrees. "But Tim wasn't lying when he said he hadn't seen Ed for over a week." He closes his eyes. "We still know as little about Ed's whereabouts as we did this morning. If _you_ know where we should be looking, then I'd be glad to hear it."  
  
John takes off his coat and shrugs. "Ed's house?" he suggests.  
  
"Too dark," replies Sherlock, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the window. "There's no point in visiting the house without also visiting the garden, and it's too dark for that now."  
  
"So," John looks at him, feeling a little lost, "we wait until tomorrow?"  
  
"Mmm," says Sherlock, in a way that suggests he's not really listening at all.  
  
***  
  
The next morning, John wakes early in fearful anticipation of a madman with a violin. Thankfully, when he opens his eyes, he discovers that his room his empty. With a sigh of relief he collapses back onto the pillow, closes his eyes, and realises that, violin or no, he's still wide awake.  
  
Mournfully, John gets up.  
  
When he's showered and dressed, he wanders into the living room with a half-formed plan to procure himself a cup of tea-- vitally important-- and some breakfast-- not so important, but would be appreciated all the same.  
  
Sherlock, during the course of the night, appears to have progressed from the couch to one of the armchairs, where he sits, huddled over the bright screen of his laptop. He's silent as John complains about the dark and throws open the curtains, and he doesn't even make any demands for tea when John goes into the kitchen and fills the kettle.  
  
Intrigued, John peers out into the living room as he opens a cupboard to get to the cereal. Sherlock is still as a statue, staring at his laptop with a scowl on his face.  
  
John busies himself with the rest of his breakfast, and it's only once he's settled himself on the couch-- a bowl of cereal in one hand, and the TV remote in the other-- that Sherlock finally speaks.  
  
"It's impossible," Sherlock says.  
  
John frowns, decides to ignore the remote for the time being, and starts eating instead. "What's impossible?" he asks.  
  
"But that's absurd," scoffs Sherlock. "It can't be impossible. Not if all the evidence points towards it." And he makes a noise of frustration and scrubs his knuckles over his forehead.  
  
John sniffs, interested to say the least. "Need a hand with something?" he asks.  
  
Sherlock sighs and gestures wearily at the screen of his laptop. "This," he says, "is infuriating."  
  
His curiosity piqued, John stands and wanders across to where he can see the screen over Sherlock's shoulder. It seems like Sherlock's looking at Google Maps. John swallows another spoonful of cereal. "What's the problem?"  
  
Sherlock groans as if he's the most put-upon man in the universe. "John, will you at least try looking properly before you start asking tedious questions?"  
  
"Fine." John shrugs, unwilling to be drawn into an argument so early in the morning. He looks more closely at the screen. Sherlock has the map on satellite view and it's showing-- "Hey," says John, "that's Gough Square."  
  
"Exactly," agrees Sherlock, pointing to the roof of a building. "And here is Ed Merryweather's house."  
  
John swallows another spoonful of cereal. "So... What's wrong?"  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Can't you see? Why is it that people never notice what's missing, even when it's so obvious?"  
  
"Wait." John stares harder at the screen, and suddenly it feels as if the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. "That's... but that's..."  
  
"Yes," says Sherlock. " _Yes._ My thoughts exactly." He points at the area behind Ed Merryweather's house. "The house is there, but the _garden_ is nowhere to be seen."  
  
John needs to sit down. He stumbles over to the other armchair and collapses into it, unable to stop his mind from whirring. "But that's..." he complains. "How does that even work?"  
  
Sherlock looks over at him with raised eyebrows. "That," he says, "is why it's infuriating."  
  
John puts his breakfast down and rubs at his eyes. It's too early in the morning for this. He's just considering getting his own laptop out so he can check for himself, when something clicks. "Oh. Wait." John can't help smiling in relief. "Of course. It's so easy to forget. Sherlock, some of those satellite images were taken _years_ ago." He grins. "The garden was obviously built after the picture was taken."  
  
Sherlock looks sorely disappointed. "Impossible," he declares. "You've seen how overgrown that garden is. It would have taken _decades_ to get like that, not years."  
  
The confusion comes hurtling back. "What?" asks John. "The garden's not overgrown. It's pristine."  
  
Sherlock stares at him, wide-eyed, as if John has just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. Frowning, Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, and the front door bangs open.  
  
"Mr Holmes!" Will strides in. "Found my brother?"  
  
Sherlock sighs. "Spoke to a friend of his," he says, glancing down at his laptop. "He hadn't seen Ed for at least a week." Sherlock turns around to look Will in the eye. "Your brother's garden. I need you to tell me everything you know about it."  
  
Will looks a little taken aback by the question. He stares for a moment, then sits himself down on the couch. "The garden? Right. Well. You know." Will licks his lips. "It's pretty normal. Why? Do you think this might have something to do with where my brother's gone?"  
  
Sherlock holds very still. "Oh," he says.  
  
"What?" Will frowns. "Do you think it does? I mean, I couldn't really draw you a diagram or anything, but I could give you..."  
  
Sherlock leaps out of his chair and rounds on Will. "Money. You said your father had a lot of money."  
  
"Er," Will stares up at him, flustered by the sudden change of subject, "yes, I did. Why..."  
  
"Your father had a lot of money," repeats Sherlock, pacing in front of Will, "and when he died, that money went to your brother in its entirety. None of it passed to you." He turns and gives Will a steady look.  
  
Will's eyes widen. "Who... Who told you that?"  
  
"No-one told me." Sherlock sniffs. "It was easy enough to tell." He looks down at Will. "It _is_ true, then?"  
  
Will shrinks back into the cushions. "Yes," he says, reluctantly.  
  
Sherlock smiles and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Well," he says, "it's nice to see that it doesn't get in the way of your relationship at all."  
  
Will shrugs and scrubs a hand over his jaw. "Ed and I have always been quite close," he says.  
  
Sherlock's smile widens.  
  
"Look," says Will, rising from the couch. "I've got to..." He points at the door. "You know. Lots of things to do."  
  
Sherlock nods. "Of course."  
  
"You'll let me know though, won't you?" asks Will. "If you find anything."  
  
"As always," replies Sherlock.  
  
"Right. Well, then," and with a nod, Will leaves the flat and heads down the stairs.  
  
As soon as they hear the front door slam shut, Sherlock's smile morphs into a scowl. "Idiot!" he cries, spinning on his heel and pacing to the wall and back. "Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!"  
  
"What?" John jumps up. "What's wrong?"  
  
Sherlock makes an exasperated noise. "How could I be so..." He waves his hands in the air. "How could I not even realise?"  
  
"What is it?" asks John, stepping out of the way as Sherlock storms past. "Care to tell me what's going on?"  
  
Sherlock huffs to himself as his collects his coat and tugs it on. "We're going back to Gough Square," he says.  
  
"Fine. Ok." John hurries to get his jacket. "And can I ask, why?"  
  
"You heard what he said, John." Sherlock turns to him, eyes bright. "The garden!"  
  
***  
  
Throughout the ride to Fleet Street, Sherlock appears agitated, staring out of the window and drumming his fingers on the sill. As soon as they arrive, he jumps out of the taxi and strides off down the narrow alleyway, and it's all John can do to keep up with him.  
  
Once in Gough Square, Sherlock steps up to Ed's house and rings the bell. Then he rings it again, and again, and again--  
  
The door is opened by Anna, who looks as if she's just run down three flights of stairs. "Ah," she says, a little breathlessly, "hello." And Sherlock pushes straight past her and into the house without so much as an acknowledgement.  
  
Left to pick up the pieces-- as always-- John gives her a smile. "Hello," he says, "and, er, sorry, for Sherlock." He nods to where Sherlock's just disappeared into the kitchen. "He gets like this sometimes. But the good news is: he seems to be onto something."  
  
Anna looks at John, wary and wide-eyed, and John can't help remembering what Sherlock said, the previous day. Crocodile tears. Could Anna really be involved in Ed's disappearance? Maybe she's jealous about the barmaid? John doesn't want to believe that she would have a hand in a kidnapping, but then-- he thinks back to yesterday's incident in the garden.  
  
John licks his lips. "Sorry," he says again. "I should probably go check that... Sherlock probably needs a hand."  
  
"Ok," she says, sounding a little bewildered.  
  
With a brief smile in her direction, John heads off into the kitchen.  
  
What he finds, when he looks through the door, is nothing short of carnage. Cupboards and drawers have been opened, papers have been strewn on the floor, and the entire bin has been emptied of its contents. Sherlock, however, is nowhere to be seen.  
  
Confused, John makes his way down the hall to the living room, where he finds Sherlock in the process of pulling all the magazines out of the magazine rack and tossing them over his shoulder.  
  
"Sherlock!" cries John. "Sherlock! What do you think you're doing? Did you make that mess in the kitchen?"  
  
"Hmm." Sherlock straightens up, surveys the chaos around himself, then dashes out of the room and up the stairs.  
  
Cursing under his breath, John does his best to follow.  
  
Sherlock makes his way into the master bedroom, where more drawers are opened and clothes are flung about the room. He overturns bedclothes, rummages through the suits in the wardrobe, then heads into the en-suite bathroom where he tips the contents of the bin onto the floor.  
  
"Jesus." John steps back as empty toilet roll tubes, used shaving foam cans, and other detritus skitters past his feet. "Sherlock, what on earth are you looking for?"  
  
Sherlock huffs, mutters something that sounds like, "Two days," then strides out onto the landing and up the stairs to the next floor.  
  
The rest of the rooms of the house are treated in much the same way, with cupboards opened, bins upset, and various possessions dumped onto the nearest available surface.  
  
Finally, when the last room has been turned over, and Sherlock has left a swathe of destruction in his wake, he stands and makes his way back down the stairs. "Come on," he calls to John over his shoulder, "we're going home."  
  
"What?" John hurries after him. "Wait. Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"  
  
"I've seen enough," explains Sherlock, as he crosses the landing on the second floor.  
  
"Enough? What?" John can't keep up. "Sherlock, wait. Hold on. Sherlock!"  
  
Sherlock stops abruptly, and spins around to face John. "Problem?" he asks.  
  
John tries to catch his breath. "I have no idea what's going on."  
  
Sherlock gives him a small smile. "Well, that's nothing new, now, is it?"  
  
John bites back a retort and rubs at his temples. "Fine," he says. "Ok. Whatever." He looks Sherlock in the eye. "But I thought we were here to go see the garden?"  
  
"The garden?" Sherlock frowns at John for a few seconds, then sniffs. "Yes," he says with a smile. "Yes, you're probably right."  
  
***  
  
The garden looks much the same as it did the day before. Neatly clipped bushes stare up at them as they make their way down onto the lawn.  
  
Sherlock frowns as he strides along. "It's very bright," he says, turning around and looking up at the sky. "It wasn't this sunny earlier."  
  
John shrugs and glances up at the sun. "Wasn't it?"  
  
Sherlock turns and continues walking. "No-one ever looks up," he complains. "Why doesn't anyone ever look up?"  
  
John has no answer to that, so he stays silent, wondering instead how Sherlock could ever think the garden was overgrown. Briefly, he wonders if Sherlock's been hallucinating more than they realise.  
  
"Sherlock," says John, hesitantly. "Are you sure you're... You're certain you feel all right?"  
  
"I've not been drugged, John." Sherlock smiles at him. "Honestly, if you worry like this about all your patients, it's no wonder you get so little work done."  
  
John goes to retort and ask how Sherlock knows anything about how much work he does, but he doesn't get a chance before they reach the bottom of the garden. There, in front of them, is a row of box hedges, standing tall like soldiers on parade. In most places, the plants merge into each other to form a solid wall of foliage but just in the corner, almost hidden from view, is a narrow gap.  
  
Sherlock steps up to it.  
  
"Is that...?" Against his best efforts, John can't help but think about lanes and fairies, and he has to suppress an urge to grab onto Sherlock's arm and stop him from going any further. "Is that the gap you talked about yesterday?"  
  
"It is," replies Sherlock, looking up to the top of the hedge, then down at the floor. He turns sideways, ready to shoulder his way through.  
  
"And..." John steps closer, trying to see past Sherlock to where the gap leads. "Are you sure you're ok, going down there again?"  
  
Sherlock steps back out a little and gives John a fond look. "I'll be fine, John," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Besides, I've got my doctor here to look after me," and with a smile, he turns and pushes his way between the hedges.  
  
As much as he wants to go too, John knows that the gap is far too narrow for him to be able to see anything around Sherlock if he were to follow after him. With nothing else to do, John waits at the entrance, feeling a little useless. "I'll be here if you think that... If anything happens," he calls out.  
  
"Fine, John!" is the reply.  
  
With a sigh, John looks up at the sky. It really is quite sunny. Was it not that sunny earlier? Having had other things on his mind, John hadn't really been paying attention to the weather.  
  
The rustling of Sherlock squeezing through the gap grows fainter, and when John peers down between the bushes, he can see Sherlock's retreating form, obscured by leaves and branches. A few minutes later, the rustling stops altogether, and is replaced by a tapping noise. John strains to see what's going on, and then the rustling starts up again as Sherlock begins to make his way back.  
  
Finally, Sherlock emerges out from between the bushes, looking slightly dishevelled, but otherwise fine. He stops, and plucks a few leaves from his hair.  
  
"So," says John, trying to peer through the gap, "did you see where the path led?"  
  
"It's not a path," says Sherlock, patting down his coat, "merely a gap between the bushes."  
  
"What...?" starts John.  
  
"It doesn't lead anywhere," continues Sherlock, "except to the garden wall."  
  
"Oh." John tries to look through the gap again. "No reflections?"  
  
"No reflections," confirms Sherlock.  
  
Confused, John frowns. He turns to Sherlock and gestures at the gap. "Do you mind if I...?"  
  
Sherlock waves a hand. "Go right ahead."  
  
"Right." John looks back to the entrance, and turns so that he can squeeze through. Then, with one final glance out at the garden, he heads into the darkness.  
  
Passing through the gap is hard work. Twigs clip John's ears and roots catch at his feet. Leaves brush him in all directions as if they're trying to stop him from going any further. If Ed Merryweather had been taken this way, then surely there would be some evidence left behind. John worries what he'll be leaving behind himself-- he'll be lucky if his jacket makes it out in one piece.  
  
Finally, with the foliage growing closer on either side, he makes it to the end of the gap, and there, just as Sherlock said there would be, is the garden wall.  
  
John reaches out a hand to touch it, the bricks cold and crumbling beneath his fingertips. Straining to arch his head back, he looks up. He can hardly see the top of the wall; it might be possible for a man to climb over it, but he'd certainly have a hard time doing so.  
  
With a sigh, John looks down at the ground beneath his feet. There's a noise of an animal skittering through the undergrowth off to one side, but there's no sign that anything else, other than Sherlock, has been down this way at all.  
  
Resolutely, John decides to squeeze his way back out to the garden.  
  
It's achingly bright when John eventually makes his way free of the hedge. He takes a deep breath, relieved to be out in the open again, and checks his clothes for damage.  
  
"What did you see?" asks Sherlock.  
  
"Just a wall," says John, running his fingers through his hair. "Like you said," he brushes down his arms, "just the garden wall."  
  
"So it was a hallucination, then," says Sherlock.  
  
John looks up, but Sherlock doesn't seem to be concerned in any way, shading his eyes with his hand to peer up at the sun.  
  
"Do you think Ed could have gone that way?" asks John. "I mean, the wall looked pretty high, and..."  
  
"No, he didn't go that way," says Sherlock. He looks around the garden, then finally down at John. "Come on." Sherlock smiles. "Let's go."  
  
***  
  
They make their way back to the house, where they find Anna staring at the results of Sherlock's investigation with a distraught look on her face.  
  
"Er, sorry about the mess!" calls John, as they head past her and out into the hall. "Really very sorry about that!"  
  
Sherlock opens the front door with a flourish, and steps out into the square.  
  
John follows, giving Anna one last apologetic smile before closing the door behind him. "Is it really ok to leave her to clean all that up?" he asks.  
  
"With the mess that was already there, it's barely noticeable," says Sherlock, frowning up at the sky. He sniffs and turns to John. "Hungry? There's a nice cafe around the corner."  
  
"Er," starts John, but before he has time to say anything, Sherlock's already off and striding away.  
  
***  
  
The cafe that Sherlock suggests turns out to be one of those upmarket places that sell coffee in an inordinate number of ways with expensive Italian biscuits on the side. After having had his breakfast interrupted, John heads up to the counter and orders himself a cup of tea and the largest, stickiest looking Danish pastry that he can see.  
  
He's just feeling in his pocket for his wallet, when Sherlock leans past him and says, "Make that two," to the girl behind the till.  
  
Shocked-- and even more so when Sherlock pays for their order himself-- John wanders over to a table and sits down. Sherlock follows, carrying the tray, which he sets down on the table, followed by a handful of packets of sugar.  
  
"You..." John watches as Sherlock takes one of the pastries, pulls it apart with his fingers, and puts a piece in his mouth. "You're eating."  
  
Sherlock swallows and smiles. "Nothing passes you by, John, does it?"  
  
"Yes, but..." John frowns, watching as Sherlock tips sugar into his tea and stirs.  
  
Sherlock takes a sip and nods towards the other pastry. "Not going to eat yours?" he asks.  
  
"Wait. Hold on." John pulls the remaining pastry towards himself before it goes wandering. "We're on a case. You don't eat when you're working."  
  
"I'm not working," clarifies Sherlock, taking another bite.  
  
John frowns. "What? But I thought we..."  
  
"I refuse to help Will Merryweather any further," explains Sherlock.  
  
John tries to make sense of that, gives up, and stirs his own cup of tea. "You're going to have to give me a bit more of an explanation than that, Sherlock," he says. "What's happened?"  
  
Sherlock wipes his fingers on a serviette. "Ever wonder why Will tells us so little about his brother?" he asks. "Why he doesn't phone him like he said he did? Why he's been lying to us constantly?"  
  
"Well, yes, I have," agrees John. "Doesn't mean I know though." He looks at Sherlock. "Why, then?"  
  
"Did you look at Will's face when he was telling us about his brother's inheritance?" asks Sherlock. "I mean: really look at it?"  
  
"Yes," says John. "He seemed upset."  
  
"He was more than just upset, John. He was _angry_." Sherlock gives a smug smile. "It wasn't easy to see, I'll give you that, but it was there if you knew to look for it."  
  
"Jealousy, then?" asks John.  
  
"Yesterday," says Sherlock, "when I asked Will if his brother had any enemies, he paused, ever so slightly, before telling us that he didn't know that his brother _had_ enemies." Sherlock sighs. "It was a lie; an obvious one. Ed Merryweather has enemies. In fact, he has one very particular enemy: his own brother."  
  
"So," John swallows a bite of his pastry as he tries to get everything sorted in his head, "you think Will was responsible for Ed's disappearance? But why would Will ask us for help if he..."  
  
"Will was responsible," agrees Sherlock, "but not in the way you think." He looks John in the eye. "Will and Ed don't get on. They've been estranged for long enough that Will knows almost nothing about his brother; that much is obvious. Ed is also careful with his money; he won't even buy a round of drinks for his friends, so he's hardly going to give any of his inheritance to a brother that he doesn't get on with."  
  
"Right," says John, trying to understand. "So..."  
  
"So when Ed got wind of the fact that his brother wanted to confront him about the money," says Sherlock, "he did something very crafty: he _disappeared_."  
  
"Disappeared?" asks John. "What, you mean he ran away? All because he didn't want an awkward confrontation with his brother?"  
  
"This is more than just an awkward confrontation, John," says Sherlock. "There's a reason that Will Merryweather didn't ask the police for help. From the strength of his anger, I'd say that Will means his brother harm. Means him quite a lot of harm, actually. Which is why he thought it would be easier to ask me to find Ed instead."  
  
"Oh," says John, then, "Wow. So we were actually trying to find Ed so that Will could..." He shakes his head. "No wonder you don't want to help anymore."  
  
Sherlock's mouth twitches. "Not quite, John." He heaves a weary sigh and pouts. "I refuse to have anything else to do with him because there is nothing more _tedious_ than a family feud."  
  
John can't help it; he snorts a laugh into his cup of tea.  
  
***  
  
When they get home, Sherlock heads to his room, shuts the door, and John doesn't see him for the rest of the day.  
  
With some time to himself for once, John spends it putting his life in order. He sorts through his bank statements, irons some shirts, and even goes so far as to clean the bathroom-- after all, as much as John wishes it weren't true, it's clear that Sherlock's never going to do it.  
  
Later, John sits down to write up the case for his blog. It's an interesting story by all accounts: a massive inheritance and two brothers; one who's jealous, and the other who's on the run for his own safety.  
  
As he types, though, John can't help but think about how frustrated Sherlock must be to not know where Ed has gone. It's the right thing to do, of course; they can't put Ed in danger by helping out his brother, and Sherlock has a better sense of right and wrong than he gives himself credit for. But still-- John knows Sherlock well enough to understand just how much an unsolved mystery gets under his skin.  
  
Speaking of which--  
  
John stares at what he's typed for a moment, before saving it as a draft and logging out. He finds Google Maps in his favourites and types in the address: _Gough Square, London_.  
  
The map, when it comes up, looks pretty unremarkable. John clicks through to the satellite view and zooms in.  
  
There, once again-- just as it had been on Sherlock's laptop this morning-- stands Ed Merryweather's house, with not one sign of the garden that lies behind it.  
  
John zooms in further; as far as he can go, until the image becomes pixellated and covered in watermarks. Yet, still, nothing changes. All John can make out is that there is some sort of area behind Ed's house, but it looks more like a courtyard than anything, and it's definitely far too small to be the garden.  
  
Could the garden have been planted in the past few years? Sherlock did say that it was too overgrown for that, but-- John's beginning to have doubts about someone's sanity, and he's not sure if it's his own or Sherlock's that he should be most worried about. From what he's said, it certainly sounds like Sherlock's been hallucinating, but if he's not been drugged then--  
  
John can't help himself. Years of childhood superstition gnaw at him against his best efforts; tales of lanes and boys and people lost to fairies. They always say that fairy magic can drive a person mad. John stares at the map in front of him and the garden that's not there.  
  
With a sigh and a shake of the head, he closes the browser and shuts his laptop down.  
  
***  
  
The next morning, when John is up and dressed-- not as early as the past two days, thankfully-- he finds that Sherlock is already up and about. He's not in his pyjamas either, and it looks like he's been working, because he's sat at the dining table with his laptop in front of him.  
  
"Morning," greets John. "Working on anything interesting?"  
  
Sherlock stares at the screen. "It's this garden," he says.  
  
John looks over Sherlock's shoulder to see that he has Google Maps open again. "The garden?" asks John. "I thought you weren't working on that case anymore."  
  
"I said I wasn't having anything more to do with Will Merryweather," says Sherlock. "The garden is another matter entirely." He turns around to look up at John. "The other day, John, you were telling me about fairy stories."  
  
John frowns, then laughs to cover his uncertainty. "Sherlock, I haven't got you reading a load of children's fiction, now, have I?"  
  
Sherlock's expression, when he looks at him, is completely serious. "It's hardly all fiction, John. In fact, if you know where to look for it, there's a field of study that..."  
  
"No," says John, as the uncertainty threatens to consume him. "No. That's all superstition. Sherlock, none of it is actually..."  
  
"I beg to differ," says Sherlock. "It's merely become fashionable to think it's untrue. The actual evidence is quite conclusive." He looks John in the eye. "I've been reading a lot of articles, and they've led me to a very interesting theory." Sherlock grins. "John, I think the garden is..."  
  
"Good morning!" Will Merryweather strides through the door and throws himself down into one of the armchairs. He smiles at Sherlock. "Any news of my brother?"  
  
Sherlock huffs in annoyance. "Not interested," he says.  
  
Will frowns. "Sorry?"  
  
"I said: not interested." Sherlock looks at him. "I thought I was clear enough."  
  
"Wait." Will pauses and scratches at his head. "Not interested in what? If you mean..."  
  
"I mean," says Sherlock calmly, "that I am no longer going to be looking for your brother."  
  
"What?" Will's eyes widen. "Why? Didn't I say that I was going to reward you? What's happened that..."  
  
"What's happened," says Sherlock, "is that I've tired of your game." He folds his hands in front of him. "I know exactly why you want to find your brother, and I know _exactly_ what you want to do to him when you find him."  
  
"Do?" protests Will. "I'm worried! I just want to make sure he's safe!"  
  
"Oh, _please_." Sherlock scoffs. "You haven't spoken to your brother for _years_. All you care about is money and revenge."  
  
Will's lip curls dangerously, the facade of the concerned brother ebbing away. John uses the moment to make his way into the kitchen and slip his gun into the waistband of his trousers.  
  
"Look," comes Will's voice from the living room, "does it really matter? I can still reward you. Come on, Mr Holmes. You don't know how important this is. My brother is a vile, selfish person; he's utterly unbearable. If you met him, you'd want to teach him a lesson too."  
  
John walks back out of the kitchen to find Will leaning forward in his chair.  
  
Sherlock regards him coolly. "Still _not interested_."  
  
Will scrubs an angry hand through his hair, then stops short with a gasp. He gives Sherlock an accusative glare. "You know where he is!"  
  
A smile flickers over Sherlock's face. "Of course."  
  
Will stands and takes a step towards the table. "Tell me where to find him."  
  
"No," says Sherlock.  
  
Will steps even closer, looming tall. "Tell me!"  
  
Sherlock holds his gaze. "I said: _no_."  
  
Will's sneer turns into a full-blown snarl. He glares down at Sherlock, and John readies himself for action.  
  
For a tense moment, everything is silent.  
  
And then Will gasps again. He makes an anguished noise and steps back. "You...!" he cries. "How... How did I not see? You're as sneaky as _he_ is! Look at you!" Will flings a hand in Sherlock's direction. "That face! I haven't seen eyes like that since Old Jack left us at Despair-on-the-Water. You thought I wouldn't notice, but you're...!" Wide-eyed, Will steps back further, almost crashing into the armchair.  
  
John glances across to Sherlock, to see him watching Will quite steadily.  
  
Will makes a noise of dismay, picks himself up, and stamps halfway across the room, where he turns to give Sherlock a glare. "Of course you won't help me," he snarls. "I should have known. You're as slippery as they all are!" He bares his teeth. "This is the last time you'll make an idiot of me for my brother," he says. "You, Sherlock Holmes, have just made yourself an enemy. And let me tell you: you _will_ regret it." Then he turns and storms from the room, the door to the flat banging shut behind him.  
  
Astonished, John listens as angry steps thud down the stairs. He wants to ask Sherlock what just happened, but instead, he finds that he can only collapse down onto the couch and rest his head in his hands. "God." John breathes out slowly. "That?" he says. "That was tense."  
  
"A little," agrees Sherlock. He chuckles. "Fun though."  
  
John laughs as well, without really meaning to. "No, it wasn't," he says, looking up and trying to sound stern, but not really feeling it. "It could have been dangerous."  
  
"Oh, come on." Sherlock smirks. "Not _that_ dangerous." He gives a significant nod in John's direction.  
  
"Well," John shrugs, pulling his gun from the waistband of his trousers, "it never hurts to be prepared."  
  
"Sometimes, John," says Sherlock, grinning from ear to ear, "I think you're the most dangerous one here."  
  
John gives him a smile in return, and wanders into the kitchen to place the gun back where it belongs. "Tea?" he asks.  
  
"Perfect," calls Sherlock.  
  
When the kettle's boiled, and John's settled Sherlock's cup of tea in front of him, he's feeling a bit more calm. He picks up his own cup and sits down opposite Sherlock at the table.  
  
"So," says John after a moment. "Want to tell me what all that was about then?"  
  
Sherlock looks up with a smile. "Mm?"  
  
"Ed Merryweather," clarifies John. "You said you knew where he is."  
  
Sherlock's smile turns into a smirk. "I do," he says, "and so do you."  
  
John frowns and scratches at his head. "What?"  
  
"Six foot two," says Sherlock. "Ed Merryweather's height is six foot two."  
  
John frowns even more. "Wh..."  
  
"Yesterday," says Sherlock, "do you remember? I asked Will to tell me about his brother's garden."  
  
"Yes," agrees John, carefully. "Yes, you did."  
  
"And the answer he gave was little more than nonsense." Sherlock scoffs. "Will Merryweather has never been in his brother's house and he's never been in the garden, which is why he only ever gave us the barest of details."  
  
"Right," says John.  
  
Sherlock waits, and then sighs. "I'm going to have to spell it out for you, aren't I?" he asks.  
  
John shakes his head in confusion. "I'm afraid so," he says.  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Right. So, don't you remember? The day before, after I'd seen my reflection, Will was here, and I asked him what he thought of the garden. And he said that his brother had _ridiculous tastes_."  
  
John frowns. "So..."  
  
"So why was his answer so different?" Sherlock looks at John. "Six foot two, John. Ed Merryweather is six foot two, and who else do we know, who is six foot two?"  
  
John pauses as realisation dawns. "That's about how tall Will..."  
  
" _Exactly_ ," says Sherlock. "I know where Ed Merryweather is because we've _met him_." He sighs. "They're not just brothers, John. They're _identical twins_."  
  
"Wow," says John, trying to get his head around the idea. "So that time when we saw Will after you'd had that turn in the garden..."  
  
"It wasn't Will at all, but Ed Merryweather. He'd come to check up on us to find out if our investigation was going to put him in danger." Sherlock groans. "It's all so _obvious_. I should have noticed it straight away, but I was so distracted at the time that even the simplest disguise passed me by."  
  
John shrugs. "Well, having the same face sounds like a pretty good disguise to me."  
  
Sherlock huffs in frustration. "It's _inexcusable_ ," he grumbles. "Still," he waves a hand, "once I did realise, it was easy enough to put the pieces together from there." He smirks. "The reason that Ed knew about our investigation; the reason he felt so threatened by it; and the reason that his girlfriend wasn't upset by his disappearance at all; was because he _hadn't_ disappeared." Sherlock huffs a laugh. "I had to check, of course, and when I looked yesterday, it was pretty easy to tell. Ed Merryweather is a clever boy, and he's done a very good job of faking his own disappearance. Almost good enough that you could believe he _wasn't_ still living in his own house."  
  
"Wait." John stares at the table in disbelief. "Are you telling me that Ed has been living in that house in Gough Square _all_ this time?"  
  
Sherlock smirks. "Last place anyone would ever think of finding him." He takes a sip of his tea. "And, of course, once I'd confirmed that Ed Merryweather hadn't been abducted but had merely been hiding, then it wasn't too difficult to work out why."  
  
"His brother?" supplies John, thinking back to their confrontation. "He's a nasty piece of work, isn't he? I hadn't thought it at first but..." he shakes his head. "I mean, I can understand siblings not getting on, but that was..."  
  
Sherlock grins at him. "You'd be surprised," he says.  
  
John laughs, and has to run a hand over his mouth to stop himself. He sighs and takes a sip of his tea instead, as his brain tries to parse all the new information. "So..." he says.  
  
Sherlock frowns. "So... What?"  
  
John looks at him. "So, what did Will mean at the end there? Something about you looking like someone called Jack?"  
  
Sherlock hums in thought. "That part _was_ puzzling," he admits.  
  
"You don't know?" asks John. "I thought this Jack might be..." He shakes his head. "I thought that maybe it meant that you and Will were related to each other."  
  
"Related?" Sherlock scratches at his scalp. "Not that I know of."  
  
"I mean," John looks at him, "you do look a little..." He gestures at Sherlock's face. "There is a bit of a... You know."  
  
"Is there?" asks Sherlock. He raises his hands to his cheekbones. "I suppose..." he says, frowning. "I suppose it could be possible, if you take it into account."  
  
"Take what into account?" asks John.  
  
"My maternal grandfather," murmurs Sherlock. "I never met him. No-one did. Well. Except for my grandmother, of course, but she never spoke about it."  
  
"What?" says John. "You mean..."  
  
"No idea," says Sherlock, looking out the window. "I don't know anything about him."  
  
"Not even...?" John stares in disbelief. "You must have figured something out, surely. That's what you do."  
  
"Don't care." Sherlock jumps up. "Family history is _boring_." He flashes John a grin, and turns to the door, just as it opens.  
  
Into the flat walks someone who looks very much like Will Merryweather. He's smiling. " _Sherlock Holmes_."  
  
John tenses without meaning to, but a quick glance confirms that Sherlock is smiling too.  
  
Sherlock steps forward to shake hands. "Ed Merryweather."  
  
Ed grins and it almost looks like he's going to shake Sherlock's hand right off. "You are a wonderful man, Mr Holmes," he says.  
  
Sherlock gives him a wry smile as he retracts his hand and perches on the arm of an armchair. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."  
  
"Nonsense," says Ed, throwing himself back onto the couch. "You've helped me a lot. My brother is an awful person; he always deserves to be put down a peg or two." Ed looks around the room. "I must admit, I didn't really know what to make of you at first, but when it became obvious that you'd found me out." He gives Sherlock a smile. "I'm just glad you picked the right side."  
  
"I didn't pick a side," corrects Sherlock. "I merely refused to act. Family politics is not worth my time."  
  
"Yes," says Ed. "I agree. My brother can get so _tiring_ sometimes. He's always so selfish. Often, I wonder how we can be related at all." He waves a hand. "Honestly, Will has never understood that if he wanted our father's money, then _he_ should have been the one to get rid of him." He sighs. "Jealousy is an awful thing."  
  
"Wait," John can't help from butting in. "You got rid of your...?"  
  
"It'll be ages before my brother tries to ask anyone else for help!" says Ed, ignoring John completely. He turns to Sherlock with a grin. "I'm telling you, Mr Holmes, you couldn't have helped me more. My brother's going to be reeling from this embarrassment for months, and it serves him right for being so annoying. Now," he claps his hands together, "I don't normally do this, but exceptional events require exceptional things." He nods at Sherlock. "I want to give you something to show you my gratitude."  
  
"No." Sherlock sniffs. "There's no need to reward me when I haven't done anything."  
  
"Oh, come on," says Ed. "You can't want _nothing_." He looks to John. "Perhaps something special for your...?"  
  
"No," says John, before any assumptions can be made. "I'm not..."  
  
Ed looks back to Sherlock. "There must be something you want," he says, spreading his hands. "Anything at all."  
  
Sherlock looks at him. "Actually," he says, "there is one thing."  
  
"What is it?" Ed leans forward. "Money? Possessions? Contacts?"  
  
"Confirmation," says Sherlock, "of a theory." He watches Ed closely. "Your garden is laced with magic. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that it's situated wholly in faerie."  
  
Ed waves a hand. "Of course it is!" He laughs in disbelief. "Honestly, I didn't think someone with eyes like yours would need to have it confirmed."  
  
Sherlock frowns. "Eyes like mine?" he asks. "What do you mean by that? Your brother said something along those lines too."  
  
Ed scoffs. "Seriously," he says, "you really don't know?" He shakes his head. "The man who can see my garden for what it really is and he doesn't even know his own heritage?"  
  
"My own heritage?" Sherlock's eyes widen. "You can't be suggesting..."  
  
Ed grins at him. "It's a good job you already believe in fairy stories, Mr Holmes."


End file.
